


Sweetart

by Arsenic



Series: Discipline and Punish [59]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-11
Updated: 2007-12-11
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Valentine's Day.





	Sweetart

"Yes, you can have tomorrow morning off," Brian said without looking up.

Mikey looked at his hand--currently curling into a fist--and the metal frame to Brian's door. "Um, how did you know it was me?"

"You wait longer than any of the others to knock."

"Really?" It wasn't shocking, not exactly, it wasn't even surprising that Brian had noticed. Mikey liked to be sure of himself before he announced his presence and Brian paid attention to things. Mikey just wasn't certain why Brian had chosen this morning to mention it.

Brian said, "Yeah. You coming in, or you just gonna hover?"

"Sorry," Mikey said, and came in.

Brian did look up when Mikey sat down. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine, why?"

"Well, you hesitated even longer than normal to knock, for one thing."

Mikey frowned. "For another?"

"If I were asking for the morning of Valentine's Day off to spend with Spence, I think I'd be a little depressed."

"I get the morning," Mikey pointed out.

"Yeah, I'm not sure that balances out the four years of nothing and the first year of prison."

Mikey didn't say anything. Brian said, "Mikey," and the concern in it was mostly what broke Mikey. Not that he wasn't surrounded by people who loved him, he was, but two years of constant terror and abuse and another year and a half of straddling the edge between wariness and outright hardness had left him with an incurable soft spot for kindnesses directed at him. Mikey said, "It's just-- Yeah, it's just. It'll be maybe four full hours, one of which we'll probably use to sleep because we're both so fucking tired all the time, and if I didn't ask for the time--which you can't really afford to give me--there wouldn't even be that, there's almost never anything and I figure at some point he's gotta figure that someone he can actually see would be better, if he doesn't just fucking blow away first."

"Yeah, he's-- Does he eat?"

Mikey rubbed at the back of his neck. "The job-- It's like the Y, with me. He feels like he's back there. He doesn't want to eat while he's there and he doesn't want to cook while he's not and Bob tries really hard to keep the fridge stocked with leftovers and I make him eat breakfast with me, but it's just, I mean, we see him maybe an hour every day, maybe."

"And the job search, is um..."

"The problem," Mikey said softly, "is that he's not just some janitor."

"Neither were you," Brian said, his jaw tightening.

"Because you saw something else. But I could have been, Bri. He--" Mikey shook his head. It was hard to explain that sometimes it wasn't wrong to want something better than what people were willing to give you, it wasn't greedy. He smiled for Brian. "Thanks for the morning."

"You should take an actual vacation some day. Just a suggestion."

Mikey rolled his eyes and left before he missed his bus to the hospital.

 

*

Mikey had set the alarm for an hour later than usual, and when it went off, he hit the snooze, wrapped himself back around Frank and mumbled, "Fifteen more minutes."

"Not gonna get an argument from me," Frank told him. He didn't argue when Mikey made them get up after that, either.

Mikey said, "C'mon, we have an appointment. You don't wanna piss off an artist, do you? I mean, you've _seen_ Gerard when he gets all," Mikey made crazy motions with his hands.

Frank said, "You do an oddly spot on immitation."

"He's my brother."

"Still, eerie."

Mikey laughed, and made sure that the two of them were on time for their appointment.

 

*

Bob had recommended the tattoo artist. After his parole, he'd gotten the date of his release tattooed on his right knee in a reversal of the Russian custom of inking a Family sign onto the knees. When Mikey said, "I wanna get a tattoo, will you draw it for me?" to Gerard, Bob said, "I know someone you should use."

And when he'd asked Frank to go with him, Frank asked, "Can I see the tattoo?" which was how the appointment ended up being for two people.

The studio was in Bob's old neighborhood, which wasn't that far. In the summer it was easily walkable; in the winter it was less easy, but still manageable. Despite their timeliness, Mikhail was still waiting for them when they arrived. He was an older man, late sixties, or possibly early seventies. He greeted them somewhat formally, but with warmth, and said, "It was Robya who sent you to me, yes?"

Gerard had mentioned the nickname to Mikey, so he nodded, and Mikhail told them, "I gave him his first mark."

Frank grinned. "Awesome." Mikey worked to consider a time when Bob's skin might have been blank, when Bob might have been less formed than he had always seemed. He gave up after a little bit.

They showed the pictures to Mikhail. The tattoos were matching except for one detail. Mikhail said, "Lovely work."

"My brother's," Mikey bragged.

Mikhail nodded, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. "Which one of you first?"

They'd agreed that Mikey would go first, being less familiar with the process. He sat in the chair Mikhail provided and held out his left hand. Frank took his right. Mikey squeezed slightly. Mikhail cleaned the area, tracing the design onto the skin before beginning. The needles hurt, they couldn't not. The skin of the hand was too thin, the bones and nerves too close to the surface. Mikey just held onto Frank's grip even tighter, watched as the rounded triangle of a Hershey's Kiss formed in the space just above his wrist, peaking at the center of his hand, and the small signatory slip of paper unfurled from its spire to curl around Mikey's ring finger. As a last touch, Mikhail filled the letters F-R-A-N-K where the "Hershey" would normally have advertised itself.

Mikhail wiped away the last of the excess ink and worked plastic wrap around the art to preserve it until Mikey could begin his home care. Mikey was a little worried Frank wouldn't be able to sit still enough--he was vibrating from excitement and pleasure at the end result of Mikey's--but as soon as he sat in the chair he was practically stone. Mikhail nodded approvingly but didn't seem too shocked, and yeah, Mikey had to admit, Frank looked like the kind of guy who knew how to get a tattoo.

Mikey sat, and held Frank's hand even if he didn't seem to need it. He watched as ink welled up from the letters M-I-K-E-Y, black and flowing and underneath it all, permanent.

 

*

On the walk back home, Frank said, "Mikey. Mikey."

Mikey said, "Happy Valentine's Day." Frank had a silly smile on his face, and Mikey wondered if maybe there was an endorphin high in getting the tattoos, or if it was the same thing that made Mikey want to smile like that, the fact that Frank had sat there and watched and never once asked what gave Mikey the right to put that on his skin.

"Mikey. Fuck me, Mikeyway, when we get home." It was cold enough that the words flew from Frank's mouth in misted puffs of gray and white. Mikey watched them disappear into the day.

"Um."

"Please."

"But you--"

"Maybe, maybe if you do that-- Or maybe not, I don't, I can't promise. But I want it, I don't care." Frank held up the hand that had just been tattooed. It was mittened, there was nothing to see there, but he said, "It's my wedding night," and it would have been solemn, Mikey thought, if Frank could have stopped grinning.

Mikey still thought he should probably say no, but there was hope in Frank's eyes and Mikey couldn't tell if it was hope that Mikey would say yes or hope that this would fix things. It didn't really matter, not in the end. It was hope. Mikey said, "You're gonna make me late to work."

Frank sprinted the rest of the way.

 

*

For all Frank's speed to get there, the actual act wasn't frantic. Mikey couldn't make it that way himself, didn't want to. They snuggled under the covers, a little frozen, a lot tired, close, very close, not as close as they needed to be. Mikey said, "I've never seen you like that, still like that."

Frank said, "I was taking you into me. Didn't wanna fuck that up."

Mikey said, "You're sure--"

"Please, please. Gonna make me beg?"

"Would it help?" Mikey asked honestly, baldly.

"Maybe," Frank said, every bit as truthfully.

"Beg me for my lips," Mikey whispered.

"Mikey, please, anything, just, let me, just--"

Mikey wanted to start small, though, so he gave in easy. Frank's lips were still a little cold, but not for long. Mikey kept them facing each other, wouldn't let Frank roll atop him, wouldn't press Frank beneath him. Frank murmured, "Please," into the kiss.

"Please what?" Mikey asked. It was a little unfair that he was the one getting aroused and he still had to think of these things, but he didn't care, not really, not so long as Frank sounded like this made him happy, like this was what he wanted.

"Please, please, I want to suck you."

"Hm," Mikey thought about it. "No." He offered up his fingers instead, and Frank took the replacement with only a hint of rebellion. When _Mikey_ was on the verge of begging _Frank_ to suck his cock, Mikey said, "Hands and knees," and if it came out a little hoarse, a little shaky, then the only two people in the world who knew were Frank and himself. Frank scrambled to follow directions. Mikey used Frank's spit to work in the first finger, but he added lube afterward. It had been a while.

Frank whimpered and bucked and rolled onto the fingers. Mikey ordered, " _Beg me_ ," and in spite of what he would have expected, when Frank opened his mouth, let loose a stream of supplication, Mikey didn't once think about all the times he'd used those words to no avail, the times when they had meant less than nothing on his tongue. This wasn't about that. Things between them had _never_ been about that.

When Frank was reaching a slightly hysterical pitch, Mikey gave him what he wanted. He reached down, hoping against hope, but Frank was soft in his hand. Mikey rubbed at his stomach, took it slow and smooth. Frank shuddered every time Mikey bottomed out, so he took a little more time with that part, asked, "Yes?"

Frank moaned, "Pleeeease."

"Yes," Mikey said, and took his time giving Frank what he could. His orgasm was drawn out, unlike any other he'd ever had, almost as slow as the sex itself, as careful. He pulled Frank down, rolled him onto his side, Mikey still inside him, softening. It wasn't exactly comfortable, was a little too much. Mikey stayed.

Frank said, "I'm sorry. I thought--"

"Sh," Mikey said. "Sh. Apologies not allowed."

"It was good, it was--" Frank pressed his back hard into Mikey's chest. "It was perfect."

_Not yet,_ Mikey thought. Not yet.


End file.
